10
True to her word, Mrs. Finnamore makes me call her friend Doris as soon as we get home from the museum, and I spend Sunday
morning visiting both her and Jim to set up a weekly caregiving plan. Between the two of them and Mrs. Finnamore, this new
job is going to take up about eight hours a week, which is time I really should spend sorting out my life. But it also means
1,450 extra dollars a month , which means I can pay off my student loan and move on to my dream life even sooner, so I figure it’s more than worth it.
Jim is easy. He needs his laundry and his groceries done, and he desperately needs someone to tidy up his house a bit. He’s
a really sweet man—ninety-six years old and still living at home! He’s a bit quiet at first, but I draw him out by asking
lots of questions about the people in the photos at his house. He tells me the most heart-wrenching story about his youngest
daughter, who died of leukemia when she was a teenager, and I learn that he worked at the local post office for nearly fifty
years. I just know he has all sorts of stories to tell, and I can’t wait to hear them.
Doris is a bit of a different story. She’s stooped with arthritis and so thin that I can see all the knobby bones of her spine,
but her spirits clearly haven’t been impacted by her age. She greets me by saying, “You’re the girl Betty’s hired, are you?”
And then, “I thought she said you were pretty.”
Without pausing to let me answer (not that I’m sure what I would’ve said to that) she proceeds to dictate exactly what she wants from me. “None of this caregiving nonsense, I’m perfectly capable of doing everything except my groceries. That fool doctor took my license away after I had one teensy little accident.”
She tells me several times that she thinks I’m overcharging her and tries to demand I use her ancient car when I get her groceries
because she doesn’t trust my “flimsy modern car.” Five minutes in, I decide to be amused instead of offended, but I’m still
glad I won’t have to see her more than once a week.
I go for a quick run when I’m done (I feel like I need to run off the whole interaction, to be honest), then I shower and
get ready for my first shift at the museum. I put on cropped pants and a button-up blouse that I think looks sort of vintage,
and pull my hair into a bun on the top of my head. I scrutinize myself in the mirror, trying to sort out if I look museum-y
enough. Maybe the next time I’m at the pharmacy, I’ll buy a cheap pair of those fashion glasses, the ones that don’t have
any prescription lenses in them.
I snap a picture of myself in my mirror and send it to the group chat with Fallon, Martha, and Divya.
[11:02]: Image sent.
[11:02]: Starting work at a museum today! Do I look the part?
As I put on some mascara, my phone dings with an answer.
[11:06] Fallon: So cute!
[11:06] Fallon: Did you finally get out of that gas station job??
[11:07]: Auto shop lol
[11:07]: And no, I’m still there
[11:07]: The museum is just a volunteer thing
[11:08] Fallon: Ooh I see haha
[11:08] Fallon: Still no luck on the job front?
[11:08]: Nothing yet, but getting closer!
(That’s a tiny lie, but I’m hoping karma will overlook it.)
[11:08] Fallon: Yay!
[11:08] Fallon: You’re way too smart to be a secretary forever lmao
She sends a string of emojis afterward, the one with the girl wearing a graduation cap. I bite my lip.
[11:09]: Lol
[11:09]: What are you up to this weekend?
I wait a few minutes, but she doesn’t answer. I turn back to the mirror and apply another layer of mascara, feeling a bit squicky inside. Talking to Fallon does that to me sometimes. Out of our group, she was the one I was closest to in university. She had this way about her, this sort of sparkly, infectious energy, and whenever we used to talk about the future she would grin at me and tell me we were destined for great things. I know she’s disappointed in me for winding up where I am. Sometimes it seems like she’s my alter ego, like a successful version of me. I’m really happy for her, don’t get me wrong, but sometimes it makes it sort of painful to talk to her.
I sigh and give my head a little shake. Jealously is a bad color on anyone, and I’m not going to become one of those people
who resents anyone who’s better than them. I need to use Fallon as a source of inspiration, not resentment. I’m going to find
a job that I love as much as she loves hers, and I’m going to live in a big, exciting city and achieve all the great things
she always said that I would. And in the meantime... in the meantime, I’m going to have a little silly fun at the local
barrel-making museum.
I nod determinedly at my reflection and head out to my car. I arrive at the museum thirty minutes before my shift, just in
case I need to do any training before I start, but the manager, Shelley, just sits me at the front desk and shows me where
the cashbox is.
“Do you take credit cards?” I ask.
“The machine’s broken,” she says, scowling like the machine is personally conspiring against her. “I’ll be in the back if
you need anything.”
She heads off before I can think of any more questions. I’m a bit nervous to be left on my own already, but at the same time, I’m glad I don’t have to work beside her all day. She seems a tad unpleasant.
I straighten out the pamphlets on the desk, clean a coffee stain off the cashbox, and then count all the money in it so I
can make sure the balance is correct at the end of my shift. Then I sit up straight and wait, eagerly, for someone to show
up.
But fifteen minutes pass by and the place is as empty as it was when I arrived. I think yesterday might have been an anomaly.
The sun is out today, and although plenty of people walk by, no one even glances at the museum.
Tucking the cashbox in a drawer, I get up and take a quick spin of the place. I know it’s just a small, kind of random museum,
but it really is incredible. I feel like I’ve been transported back a hundred years. The floors are made of thin hardwood
planks that creak underfoot, and the glass in the windows is warped with age. And whoever designed the exhibits clearly knew
what they were doing. As you move through the rooms, they take you through the history of barrel-making, ending in the largest
room in the back, where the barrel-maker was doing demonstrations yesterday. He isn’t here today, though. Maybe he only comes
on Saturdays.
My footsteps echo as I loop the rooms once, then again. I reread all the little placards that explain all the different tools
and peer out the windows to the enormous yard in the back. It’s really beautiful, with a few big shady trees and a pier overlooking
the water. It’s a shame they don’t use it as part of the museum. They could put in a barrel-themed playground for kids. Maybe
in the summer they could even put a barbecue out there and sell burgers and hot dogs.
“Hello?” calls a voice.
I jump and hurry back to my desk, where two middle-aged women are waiting.
“Hi!” I say brightly. “Did you want to buy tickets to the museum?”
“Oh, no,” one of the women says. “Do you have a bathroom?”
I hesitate—something tells me Shelley wouldn’t approve of this—then nod. There’s nothing worse than being stuck somewhere
and having to pee, and something tells me these two women are tourists. “Of course,” I say. “It’s right through there.”
“Thanks,” says the woman, and heads off.
Her friend peers past me into the museum. “What’s this place about?”
“Barrel-making,” I say. “The town of Waldon was once the second-largest manufacturer of barrels in the country.” I know this
because I read it on one of the museum placards. “Ten thousand barrels a year, all of them made by hand.”
The woman nods politely. “Well, maybe I’ll take a walk through while I wait for her,” she says. “How much is it?”
“Five dollars.”
“Do you take credit cards?”
I pull an apologetic face. “Machine’s broken.”
The woman frowns. “I don’t know if I have any Canadian money.” She digs in her purse. “These funny little coins you use,”
she muses. “What are these ones called?”
“Toonies,” I say, hiding a smile. She’s American, surely. “Where are you from?”
“New Jersey,” she says. (I knew it!) “My sister and I are here for a week.” She hands me three toonies.
“Your change,” I say, opening the cashbox. “One loonie.”
“Ha! A loonie. How strange.” She heads off into the museum. I can tell she’s not that interested in barrels, really, but she
seems like the type of person who enjoys poking around places. I smile as I watch her wander around. It really is peaceful
in here.
The other woman, her sister, emerges from the bathroom. “Where’d Anne go?” she asks me.
“She went through the museum,” I say. “Do you want to buy a ticket too?”
“For five dollars?” the woman says incredulously, reading the sign. “Yeah, right. Tell Anne I’ll be outside when she’s done.”
I stifle a snort. How rude.
I smile extra politely at her, because rude people never seem to know what to do in the face of excessive kindness. “Absolutely,”
I say cheerfully. “You have a great day, now. Enjoy the town!”
She looks vaguely confused and annoyed, just like I hoped she would. I giggle to myself as she leaves. Five minutes later,
her sister—the nice one in the family, I’d say—reappears and thanks me.
“Enjoy the rest of your visit,” I tell her. “Good luck with your awful sister,” I add under my breath after she’s gone.
No one else comes in afterward, and I start to get a little bored. I do Wordle (QUIET, in four guesses) and make a list of all the ideas I have to boost interest in the museum—barrel-themed playground, hot dog stand, guided tours—then I rummage through the desk drawers until I find the broken credit card machine. It’s one of those small handheld ones with a separate piece for people to tap their credit cards. Someone has shoved it back into its box, which thankfully still has a manual inside. It takes me a good forty-five minutes, but by the end, we’ve got a fully functioning credit card machine again.
I wander back to Shelley’s office, where I find her scrolling through Facebook on an old desktop computer.
“I fixed the credit card machine,” I tell her.
She glances up briefly. “I’m sure it’ll just break again. That thing’s a piece of junk.”
Okay, that wasn’t quite the praise I was looking for, but whatever.
“It’s pretty quiet here today,” I say.
“You can leave if you want to,” she says without looking away from Facebook. “I’ll watch the desk.”
I frown. “No, I don’t mind staying. But I was thinking—wouldn’t it be fun to call the local schools and see if they want to
bring their kids here for field trips?”
Shelley snorts. “Pretty boring field trip, looking at a bunch of barrels.”
Okay, what is with this woman? Honestly, why work in a barrel-themed museum if you don’t like barrels?
“Er—have you worked here long?” I ask. Maybe she’s gotten jaded over the years. Maybe she used to be a hardcore barrel-enthusiast,
but the rough world of barrel museum curating wore her down.
“My aunt ran it before me,” Shelley says, with the tiniest eye roll. “I could’ve sold this building for, like, half a million,
but the town historical society conned her into letting them take over the lease right before she died.”
Yikes. “A tad unpleasant” may have been a serious underestimation of Shelley.
“I think it’s cool,” I say stubbornly. “I love museums.”
Shelley gives me a slightly incredulous look and then goes right back to scrolling on Facebook.
I escape back to my desk and sit down again, feeling a bit perturbed. Fortunately, I don’t have much time to sulk before a
young couple peers uncertainly into the door.
“Come in!” I say eagerly, beckoning them inside.
They’re in their midtwenties, I’d say, and they tell me they’re visiting from Japan. When I ask what brought them to PEI,
the girl says, “Anne of Green Gables.”
“Ooh, I love Anne of Green Gables!” I say earnestly. How cool that someone traveled here from so far away because of a lovely old children’s
book.
The two of them clearly know how to appreciate a museum properly, and after paying for tickets, they spend nearly an hour
walking around. They’re in the back room when I hear them speaking in English to someone with a deep, male voice. I twist
around, confused. Did someone else sneak into the museum while I was talking to Shelley?
I wander back there and find the barrel-maker from yesterday back at his post, carving off thin ribbons of wood from a log
with a two-handled blade. He’s probably about fifty years old, with tanned white skin, muscly shoulders, and an impressively
bushy beard. If he had old-fashioned clothes on, he could be in a photo titled “Ye Olde Barrel Maker.”
The Japanese couple and I watch quietly as he works. He’s got a really natural way about him, explaining what he’s doing in a deep, calm voice. It’s strangely soothing to watch him, and it’s clear he cares deeply about his craft. I feel a pang of longing in the center of my chest. I want to find something I care about that much.
After about fifteen minutes, he comes to a natural stopping point in his work and says it’s time for a coffee break, then
tells us all to enjoy the rest of the museum.
I hurry after him, eager to introduce myself.
“That was great,” I say, following him into the tiny break room near Shelley’s office.
“Er—thanks,” he says, looking surprised to see me behind him. “Are you visiting Waldon?”
“No, I’m volunteering here. This is my first day.” I stick out a hand. “Emily Evans.”
He shakes my hand. “Trey Fisher.”
“Nice to meet you. I wasn’t sure if you were here every day. I’m so glad that couple got to see you!”
“I usually come down a few times a day,” Trey says, grabbing the empty coffeepot. “My shop’s just up the street.”
“What do you sell?”
He gives me a funny look. “Barrels.”
“Oh!” I laugh at my own stupidity. “Duh. I didn’t realize people still made barrels by hand.”
“What did you think whiskey was made in?” Trey asks. “Or wine?”
I grin sheepishly. “I guess I’ve never really thought about it. Or I guess I thought they’d have, like... barrel-making
machines, or something.”
“They do, but they don’t make them as good as a cooper does.”
“Ah.” I nod sagely. “And a cooper is...”
Trey laughs. “Are you sure you should be working at this museum? A cooper is someone who makes barrels and casks.”
“Oh, sure. I definitely knew that,” I say. “Just like I definitely know the difference between a barrel and a cask.”
“All barrels are casks, but not all casks are barrels,” Trey says.
“Thanks,” I say dryly. “It’s totally clear to me now.”
He laughs, a deep, warm rumble. I’m not going to lie to you, I’m kind of rethinking my “no dating guys in their fifties” rule
before I spot the wedding band on his left hand.
“Coffee?” he asks, pouring water into the machine.
I smile. “Sure!”
“I’ll stick around for another half hour or so, but if more people show up after I leave, feel free to text me. Did Shelley
give you my cell?”
“Er—no.” I take out my phone and type as he tells me his number. I sit down on the edge of the break room table as he scoops
coffee into the filter. “Do you like working here?”
“Working?” Trey laughs. “This place makes, like, fifty bucks on a good day. I’m a volunteer, same as you.”
“Oh. Well—do you like it?”
“Sure. It’s a nice break from the shop. And it’s fun to pretend that people actually care about barrel-making a couple times
a day.”
I laugh. I definitely like this guy. “How does the museum stay open if it doesn’t make any money?”
“Grants from the historical society, mostly.”
“It’s a shame there aren’t school tours,” I say. “Or how cool would it be to have a barrel-themed playground in the back?”
Trey chuckles. “A barrel-themed playground. That’s a good idea. Shelley would never go for it, though.”
I glance at the door, conscious that Shelley’s office is just down the hall. “Why not?”
Trey’s expression sours a little. “Her aunt Josephine ran this museum for years. She was a cooper herself, actually. One of
the only female coopers in Canada, back then. She died a few years ago. Shelley would’ve just sold this place, but Jo signed
it over it to the historical society.”
“Er—Shelley mentioned that, yeah,” I say. “Why does she still work here, if she doesn’t like it?”
“No clue.” Trey shrugs. “She probably gets a decent salary from the society to manage it.”
To scroll through Facebook, more like. “So there’s no way of improving things here?”
“Not unless it costs zero dollars,” Trey says. He pours me a cup of coffee from the half-full pot.
I take a sip, frowning thoughtfully. “I bet there’s still a way.”
“Well, if you come up with anything, let me know if I can help.”
“Really?”
Trey nods. “I wouldn’t mind seeing a few more people come through this place. Kids these days should learn more hands-on skills.”
An idea strikes me. “Would you be willing to teach kids’ classes?”
Trey frowns thoughtfully. “I guess. As long as they’re old enough to use the tools safely.”
“So like... six?”
Trey snorts. “You don’t have children, do you?”
“Er—no.”
“Twelve and up,” he says. “And we’d need parent consent forms.”
I grin. “Let me look into it.”
I hold out my coffee cup for him to clink. He looks amused but does it anyway. I walk back to my desk with a little more pep
in my step. It’s not a career or anything, but I bet I can make a difference here.
I sit down at the front desk, take a deep swig of coffee, and open a blank note on my phone. I’ve got a lot of work to do.